Rewriting the fairy tale

I was wondering how I would rewrite the story of H and I if I could. Would we have lived a happily ever after? Would I have been able to spend the rest of my life with someone that I could not share the pleasures of wine with? Would I constantly fear that he would relapse and be horrible in front of our children, and cause the sickness to be passed down to yet another generation? Would he die early of cirrhosis and leave me a widowed business owner and single mother in the middle of Mexico? Yes, is the simplest answer. Because the only way it could have turned out any different was if he had been cured. And it became evident in the last few months, that he didn’t want to be the best version of himself. He spent countless hours watching movies or soccer, fishing, and doing god knows what when he was drinking.

The fairy tale I saw was one based in nievity. He would remain sober, ayahuasca would cure him, and he’d be able to responsibly enjoy wine after that. Our passion would never subside. We would fall into makeout sessions as spontaneously as we would rhythmically walk down streets arm in arm together, in complete sync the way we did since the beginning. We would figure out the home situation, find happiness in preparing incredible meals together, in shooting hoops, walking the dogs, creating art, fishing on the coast for fish we'd be able to cook and share with our friends and family. We would work hard for two years, saving as much money as we could, and buy an incredible property down in Baja to turn into our bed and breakfast. I would take Spanish classes, and he would be patient with me learning. By the time we would move down to Mexico, it would be like I’d been speaking it my entire life. His family would come down and work on remodeling the property, I would spend my days visiting farms and fisherman, wineries and coffee roasters, chocolate makers and mezcal producers, and come home to cook an elaborate meal for everyone there. I would have my recipes so dialed in that the cookbook would be written and ready to release as soon as the doors would open for paying guests. I would be pregnant around that time. The twins I had always had in the back of my mind would be here, with their names chosen years earlier when we would joke about having a family even though both of us always told the other that we didn’t want kids.

The family reunions would be massive and filled with joy. Our bed and breakfast would be built by and tended with love, and would embrace all guests with serenity and belief, that things could always be this good. That happiness was a right. H would be an amazing father and partner. While I was pregnant he would be a complete gentleman, predicting my needs, surprising me with flowers, doing the heavy lifting even though I would insist on doing everything myself. We would grow old there. Travel magazines would show our progression through the years, and always capture the love and joy that we had together, that had been there from the start. We would be acting like newlyweds into our eighties. We would spend at least a month every year traveling and discovering the world together. When one of us died, the other would not be far behind, because our bodies would know that this time together was better than either one of us ever hoped for ourselves.

I get it now. When people would tell me that three months was not a lot of time to be sober. When they would ask me how that would work, given my industry, to be with someone that couldn’t drink. When they would tell me that they didn’t want me to get hurt. When I thought I could walk out the back door at any minute, and they all said that no, I was in too deep. I get it. I spent the last three months with my life turned upside down. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life, and all of a sudden it was not only gone, it was located somewhere in the middle of a hurricane, just out of reach, that was destroying and hurting everything in its path. By the time the storm was over it would leave a trail of destruction and wounds that would leave permanent scars on trust and compassion and hope. I wouldn’t be able to look at adicts the same way without knowing first hand the pain and destruction that they have caused people that love them. I would have limited compassion for not only the addicts, but those that decided to stay with them. Which I know is complete bullshit, but there’s a limit. Now on the other side of it I would have expected my friends to have given up. To have grown tired of my venting about stupid shit like broken promises over dinners, dashed expectations of time together, and the endless tears and heartache, just to end up back in the relationship, and hiding it from them out of shame.

So I’m out now. Just as I was congratulating myself on making it a full week without having contact with him, he texts me. I delete the texts as soon as I figure out it’s him, because I’ve deleted his contact information for the eleventeenth time. He’s sending me screenshots of Mexican love songs that he’s listening to. He’s been drinking. Of course he has. If I had gotten drunk this week I would have done the same thing. I ask if he’s okay. He doesn’t answer, but says he’s lying with his friend’s dog. I don’t respond. I want to move on. I also desperately want him back, because the dream I had was so real that I can still feel it, as if we are actually living it, because I was so sure, and so naive.

#SingleinOakland #Addict #Alcoholic